


Character Study

by strawberrysoda



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Author!Otabek, Ballet!Yuri, Body Worship, Bottom Yuri Plisetsky, Character Study, M/M, Mature themes later, Size Difference, Top Otabek Altin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-31 04:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12124656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrysoda/pseuds/strawberrysoda
Summary: Otabek Altin, 26 years old, is the mysterious author whose famed series has hit a serious writers block.Yuri Plisetsky, 20, is the prima ballerina who's facing serious financial troubles in order to stay in the School of Ballet.An author's infatuation will drive him to lengths in order to get what both he and his series needs. Even if that means paying someone to hold an arabesque for two hours.In which two people meet under the pretense of a character study and develop a curiosity to study each other on a more personal note.





	1. False Pretense

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time using AO3 as a medium for writing. Please leave constructive criticism!

He had needed a break, needed some type of relief from the gruelling process of being bent over a keyboard in a dark room trying to regurgitate his ideas somehow onto the computer screen. He’d stay up for hours, days even, on end chasing after a single thought and by the time he was finished, it looked like a plot generator had malfunctioned and vomited onto his word document. But he was done with step one, and that was the most painful part. 

Otabek had shuffled out of the humid early September air and into the comfortable air conditioning of one of his favorite bars he frequented. He wasn’t a big drinker, but he was a big atmosphere person. The way the stairs descended into a tall room, the walls rustic bricks and the floors a deep cherrywood. The ceiling towered above, a elegant yet simple chandelier lilting with the draft coming from the entrance door almost eye-level with it. Otabek descended and took a seat at the end of the bar, a matching brick fixture with a cherrywood accent. The soft jazz sifting through the room like sand and the ambient candles washing over the room from their places on coffee tables. 

He ordered his usual, rum and coke, and just soaked in the feeling of a heavy weight being lifted off his shoulders. Running a hand through the longer tresses atop his undercut, measuring its length by how long it took to get his fingers through it. Otabek had been so busy the longer top part was now almost dusting his eyebrows, yet the undercut was neat and trim. It was easy to do that himself, but he wasn’t so elegant with scissors. He speaks from experience. 

Finishing the first glass and waving down the bartender for another, the door to the lounge opened to welcome a group of what sounded like six women, judging from their heels clacking on the black metal fixture attached to the wall. Otabek wouldn’t have paid them any attention if it weren’t for the bartender letting out a small whistle underneath his breath, eyebrows raised. Deciding to spare them a glance, he could see why the reaction was induced. All six of them were beautiful, long legged and poised. They climbed down the stairs with grace, down to where the lounge was littered in soft dark leather couches and took their seat as if they belonged there as if in a painting. All of them wore heels except for one, who opted for ankle cut boots.

It was too late to realise Otabek had been staring, quickly turning to see his rum and coke left for him and the bartender hurriedly tending to them. He downed another sip and just listened to the air around him, picking up on a small fit of giggles coming pointedly from the direction of the group of girls. “Yuri, you have to stay sober, you’re the designated walker tonight.”

“Walker? You all live less than three blocks from here, that’s why you insisted we come.” 

“Three  _ dangerous _ blocks, Yuri,” the first voice cooed, feigning a helpless persona from what Otabek could pick up on. He had swiveled to the side in his bar stool at the point, not to directly look at the group in particular, but to also study the antique art upon the wall. 

“We all have the same hours at the studio, why can’t I let loose a little too, huh? I even have to lift your heavy asses in the air,” this one--  _ Yuri? _ \-- huffed. Otabek’s eyes unconsciously drifted over again. It was Yuri who opted for the ankle boots. Wearings cuffed jeans and a loose dress shirt, rolled up to the forearms and a deep forest green that complimented the halo of golden hair that tumbled down their shoulders. There was something about this Yuri that Otabek couldn’t quite pinpoint, which made him stare longer. The way Yuri’s cheekbones protruded when they smiled, the cat-like upturn of their eyes and wide smile, how sharp their features were yet cheeks round and buoyant. By this time the bartender had offered them all the drinks they’ve ordered, slipping into a good mood with their cups full.

His hand started to twitch, the same way it did when an idea came to his head and he just  _ had  _ to write it down. Fishing the memopad from his pocket along with a pen -- two things he never was without -- Otabek painted the graceful way the stranger moved over the next hour. All the way from the way Yuri’s hand dangled off the side of the armrest to the way Yuri’s legs uncrossed to the way Yuri’s body shifted to get up to the way that now when Otabek went to see what happened next, they were making eye contact with Yuri standing in front of him

He forgot how to breathe, they were close enough that when Yuri exhaled, Otabek’s glasses fogged a bit. 

“What-cha writing there, huh?” It was soft and gentle in voice, yet very pointed in tone. 

“It-- d’uh,” Otabek struggled for words, dropping his pen on the floor between them in the process. “It’s um, st-study. Character study.” He stuttered dumbly. Being a writer for a living doesn’t secure the best social skills. 

“What, you’re an author or something?” Nod. “And you just write about strangers you see in bars?” Nod. “Aren’t you just the most un-creepy person I’ve ever met,” Yuri smiled but it was smug, knowing. “Anything dirty in there? Some Fifty Shades of Grey kind of wack---,”

“No!” Otabek gasped a little too loudly, garnering the attention of a few others. He regained composure, what little he could muster at least, and shook his head. “No, it was just to study the way you moved. I don’t--, no it wasn’t like... _ that _ .” He put his hands up in defense, and by this time the stranger had glanced over the quickly written words with an interested type of smile playing on their lips. 

“Say, Mr. Character Study,” Yuri pushed the memopad back to its owner, “aren’t you judging a book from its cover?” Otabek’s eyes followed the other’s form as they bent down to pick up the dropped pen, tucking it in Otabek’s front pocket of his dress shirt after scribbling something down on the next empty page of the pad. “Shouldn’t you know that best as a writer?” 

Yuri joined the rest of the girls as they paid their tab and left, ascending back up the stairs in which they came as Otabek flipped to the next page where a few words were jotted down. Along with a phone number:

_ You don’t look half bad for a writer. Your character study needs some work though. Feel free to study more - Yuri.  _

_ P.s. Your pronouns are wrong.  _

 

Otabek woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and the email icon blinking angrily on his desktop from across the bedroom. His three glass limit somehow turned into five as he pondered when to text this Yuri and what the note meant. He groggily half-fell out of his bed and trodded over to click on his email folder, seeing two emails both from his editor and his manager. Right, Otabek had finished his first outline last night and still needed to send it. Clicking open the email from his manager, he squinted his bedridden eyes to discern his week’s plans. Go to the publishing house. Interview. Start revisions immediately. 

Making his way through his bedroom and down to the kitchen, the page ripped out of the memopad lay on his kitchen island. The phone number glared tauntingly at him, yet he staved off indulging his curiosity until after breakfast and a nice hot cup of coffee. Deciding on some simple eggs and toast, he popped two pieces of bread in the toaster while he fried two eggs on a heaping amount of butter. Otabek wasn’t bad at cooking, it was one of his past times to get his mind off of writing, but there was no focusing on how long the eggs needed to be whipped and put in the oven with the toast for the perfect eggs benedict with both his pounding frontal lobes nor those devious cat eyes staring him down in his mind. Otabek sat down and read the morning paper on his phone, nibbling at his egg toast combo, glancing at the slip of paper repeatedly. 

_ Fuck it _ , he caved in, punching in the number in his phone and typing a brief message. 

 

_ Are you free for another character study? _


	2. Impolite Staring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just scratching the surface level of both character's lives.

It was hours after Otabek sent the text before he received an answer. Of course, he tried what he always did when he wanted get his mind off something: he cleaned. It was something the author had picked up in early childhood from his mother back in Almaty. Otabek learned to never say he was bored or he would be handed a rag and a bucket, advised to clean the stairs or dust off the chinaware. Cleaning worked wonders for his brain, however, it was easy to get lost in organizing his desk or the heaps of papers and jotted down notes now cluttering his office space. Plot outlines, character development, analyzed settings, topical research. All en masse on his floor. Rolling up the sleeves of his knitted shirt, Otabek started to separate papers into relative stacks by topic, glancing at his phone every so often for a glimmer of hope. But the more he found his eyes glancing in the direction of where his phone rested atop his chair, the more he found himself dually disappointed and getting his hopes up higher. 

By the time he was finished filing papers, dusting off the computer screen and desk, vacuuming up all the crumbs from when he’d been too focused to eat at an actual table, and lighting a candle to freshen up the area, his phone had one unread message. From unknown number, 4:27 pm. 

_ You’re the man from the bar last night?  _

Otabek’s thumbs fumbled a response, affirming the question and hitting send. 

_ Send me a picture to prove it. _

Picture? Otabek caught himself in the mirror and God did he look like a  _ wreck. _ But stalling would only cause suspicion, so he ran to his bathroom and wet his hands, running through his hair to at least make it even and not stick up a hundred different directions. Not enough time to shave, but wearing his glasses at least hid how exhausted Otabek was, even if by a little. He stood in front of his full length mirror by his bedroom door and snapped a picture of his entire body, as if that would prove something more. Hand tucked into his sweatpant pocket and stoic. He hit send. Immediate reply.

_ How do I know you aren’t trying to kill me? There’s a lot of people who’d love to do terrible things to a face like this.  _

His mouth ran dry for a moment, trying to conjure what type of explanation he could offer without sounding like a disgusting, old  _ creep. My name is Otabek and I want you to talk to me while I note how your fingers curl around your coffee cup, how your lips curl when you smile, and how your eyelashes flutter when you’re hit by a breeze.  _ Fuck. 

The author might have been good at writing books, but that doesn’t mean he’s good with words. His best response was  _ We can meet in a public space. Anywhere you’d like. Any time.  _ Before Otabek could ponder more, the send button was hit and his bottom lip was suddenly sore from gnawing on it. Suddenly sick from anticipation, he retreated to his living room and took a spot on his couch, eyes never wavering from the screen as his knees curled up closely to his chest. 

One, two, now three minutes and counting since Otabek sent that message, and honestly he didn’t blame Yuri for not responding. Otabek knew he wasn’t great with social interaction. Hell, he’d rehearsed a thousand times how to order a rum and coke at that same bar and still got choked up when confronted by the bartender. Snapped from his thoughts, his phone buzzed, accompanied by a message. 

_ I’ll meet you Wednesday at 2 at Honeysuckle. You’re paying.  _

Honeysuckle? Otabek suddenly remembered the greenhouse-type coffee shop that was five blocks from the bar. Six blocks from his loft.  _ Wednesday at two _ , Otabek ingrained into his mental calendar. He had three days to mentally prepare himself, and honestly he doesn’t think he’d be ready if given three hundred years. 

 

Yuri smirked smugly at his phone, tucking it into his bag as he and the other dancers prepared their leave from another long day at the studio. “What’s got you so giddy, huh?” Yuri turned and feigned innocence, something he’s become a professional at. 

“Don’t know what you’re implying to, Mila. I’ve got no secrets.” His face could only hold for so long before his lips curled into a small, playful smile. Gathering his bag and sweater, tugging on a pair of sweatpants before slipping into a pair of old tennis shoes with a relieved sigh. It felt good to have something between him and the floor after being on his feet for hours. 

“We both know that’s never true, Yuri. You always have secrets, you’ll just never share.” Mila pointed this out matter-of-factly, exiting the building onto the street. The city was relatively empty on a Sunday afternoon, only those who came for an occasional dinner downtown after church that morning, their boisterous hats making Yuri want to both puke and laugh simultaneously. 

“Well, you can’t say I have something when you have no proof. So unless you’re gonna cough up some evidence, keep your nose out of it,” the weather was certainly getting colder nowadays, Yuri stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked towards his and Mila’s flat. 

“Ouch, tiger. Too bad for you I glanced over your shoulder earlier. Talking to the guy who was staring at you last night for an uncomfortable amount of time? I got total creeps from him, even if he was gorgeous.” Mila made somewhat of a discomforted face, crossing her arms to shield them from an oncoming breeze. Yuri thought for a second and she was right. He was just  _ gawking _ and writing at him, for at least forty-five minutes. Oh, and how Yuri wanted to know what he wrote. Yuri knew meeting with someone he’s only seen once was a pretty dangerous idea. Given, Yuri was a dangerous type of guy, and he reasoned with himself that people put themselves in more dangerous situations with online dating. He shrugged. 

“I’m gonna see him Wednesday. He wants to meet for coffee. And you said so yourself,” Yuri nudged Mila with a knowing smile, “He’s  _ gorgeous _ . Damn, those arms. Their almost the size of my thigh!” He exasperated, lighting up like a cell phone that has thirty-seven missed calls. 

“Yuri, your thighs aren’t all that big, you know? I mean, I guess they’re kind of meaty, but really the only thing you have going for you is your ass--,” Yuri hit his friend and showcased a disgusted look. If there was one thing Yuri  _ hated  _ more than anything, it was being liked only for his looks. Growing up, Yuri had always been teased for looking like a girl, for having hair like a girl, and even doing a girls sport:  _ ballet _ . Thus, he adopted a spitfire and acidic personality resulting in little friends graduating high school.  All except his friends at the school of ballet, where he could be the prima he’s trained his entire life to be. Sure, looks where a start. But Yuri didn’t do one hundred squats every day to keep his butt and legs in prime condition just to have it manhandled by some douche only looking for a quickie followed by a disappearing act. 

“I want grilled chicken tonight, fuck your vegetarian plan. I wasn’t raised to be an herbivore,” he forced the keys into the lock and used all his forearm to turn and his weight to push. It’s been weeks since they put in a complaint about the door and still no answer. But granted, Mila and Yuri didn’t own an apartment in the richest complex in town. The only reason they’re here at all is because Mila’s parents gifted this to her when she was nineteen. The only reason Yuri had a place to stay was because of Mila. Truthfully, the only friend that had been there for him for four years now had been Mila. 

Yuri started to reheat his grilled chicken from the other day, pairing it with brown rice and a small leafy salad. Being a ballet dancer, expending his energy for sometimes ten hours a day, he learned very quickly that his energy was in what he ate. Not to say occasional splurges or sweets were completely off the table, but all is in moderation they say. 

Pulling his cell out of his bag, Yuri only had one unread message. From Mr. Character Study. 

_ Of course, I’ll meet you there.  _

He honestly didn’t expect for this guy to do anything perilous in broad daylight. Let alone surrounded by a bunch of people. Honeysuckle was  _ always _ crowded. What were they going to do? Just stare at each other for another hour? At least he’ll get some decent coffee out of it. Yuri tucked his hair behind his ears and picked at his food, running through images of Mr. Character Study behind his eyes whilst dropping rice pieces all on the floor. 

“Yuri, you’re making a mess,” Mila huffed and tossed him a napkin, snapping the young dancer out of his trance to find his lap covered in a third of his rice. Muttering something under his breath before shoveling the rest of his food in and practically stripping down the hall to hop in the shower to seclude himself with his thoughts once more. Mila yelled after him to both clean his dishes and pick up his clothes and was awarded an absentminded “later” before the sound of the nozzle turning on drowned out the rest of her nagging. 

_ He didn’t look too shabby,  _ Yuri reasoned, picking out how his shirt looked quite expensive and that his shoes, from what Yuri could see when he picked up the pen, looked like they cost a pretty penny as well. The man also stuttered, and much to Yuri’s surprise, it was actually quite endearing. Not often he sees a grown man shell-shocked. 

Yuri didn’t realise how long he’d been spending washing his hair until his roommate banged on the door asking if she could have some hot water too. He huffed and rinsed the suds from his hair and toweled it and his body dry. The rest of the night was spent watching reruns and specials, with Yuri just staring at the picture he was sent from the unknown number until his phone claimed low battery. He climbed into his warm, soft bed and expelled all worrisome thoughts from his mind but sleep. 

There’d be enough time to ponder this for the next three days. 

 

Otabek had a strict no face-to-face rule when it came to interviews. Thus, most were proctored via email, phone call, or voice recording. It was the morning of Wednesday, and the voice call wasn’t scheduled until 11:30. He was hoping they’d only ask questions he had premeditated responses to or the interview was going to be an excruciating long process. Luckily, he had his manager there with him. One of the few people with the honor to call Otabek a friend, Jean-Jacques, JJ for short, was a man with a lot of spunk and charisma. He was everything Otabek wasn’t, and honestly a role model for how Otabek wanted to develop socially. JJ was the epitome of ‘social butterfly’, he could talk to anyone. He could talk to a serial killer and charm his way out of an unsightly death.  _ That idiot _ , Otabek furrowed his eyebrows,  _ he knows I don’t like interviews.  _

They both sat in Otabek’s office, phone on the coffee table between the two small black leather couches in the center of the room. “Are you ready? You have your list right?” JJ cracked his knuckles like he was going into a fight. Which it was, mentally for Otabek. He nodded and waved his cheat sheet for his manager to see before the phone rang. Exactly 11:30 on the dot. 

“Hello? Is this the office of Leroy Publishing House?” A firm, yet high pitched voice chimed from the other line. She seemed very enthusiastic by how breathless she was. 

“Yes,” JJ chimed it. His father owned the firm and gave JJ a managing position to prime him into taking over the business one day. Starting with their biggest client, Otabek. “This is the office. I’m O. Alma-T’s manager, he is sitting next to me. Feel free to commence your interview.” JJ leaned back into the couch as if he was going to see a Goddamn movie. Otabek stared daggers when JJ grinned like the cunning idiot he is. 

“Hello? Is this Mr. Alma-T?” The voice rang tauntingly from phone. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled.  _ Get through this. Quickly.  _

“Y-yes, this is he. I look forward to interviewing with you.” 

 

Otabek rushed out the door after changing into something more presentable. He checked his watch for the time. 1:42.  _ Fuck.  _  He checked one last time in the mirror to straighten himself out, smooth the wrinkles of his fine linen shirts. JJ had helped him earlier, prompted with “what would make me look trustworthy and professional?” and was originally fired back with “was this for a date or a meeting?” Otabek didn’t think it was a meeting, but  _ certainly _ not a date. 

“M…meeting. Casual meeting.” The writer was absolutely unconvincing and stuttered childishly. JJ just shrugged and rummaged through the closet, hiding his smile with years of practice. They settled on a light wash gray linen shirt, no collar but button up. That the ‘casual aspect of it’, as per JJ. Darker grey slacks, paired with black tennis shoes for a ‘sleek, yet off-the-clock style’. Otabek was thinking maybe his manager should run a clothing line rather than a publishing firm at this point. 

Now Otabek was straining from just sprinting there, laptop case in tow, but by the time he would reach the juncture where Honeysuckle lay, his freshly combed hair and neatly tucked shirt would all be for naught.  _ Fashionably late _ , Otabek reminded himself of the phrase. He didn’t know what considered to be fashionable in tardiness, but he’d take any bone he was tossed right now. Rounding the corner and barely breaking a sweat, there was time for one last clock in. 2:04. One more self evaluation: hair, shirt, laptop case, glasses. Check.  _ Remember your words _ , Otabek convinced himself that he could speak normally under pressure, that his stupid stutter didn’t exist at this point in time. 

Pushing the doors open to the cafe, Yuri was immediately spotted in a corner table where the sun was still shining brightly through the shadows each plant-- and  _ wow  _  there were a lot of plants in here-- casted into the room. Yuri turned around, and for another long moment, Otabek forgot both how to breathe and how to move. 

It was two seconds, tops, until Otabek regained cognitive function and walked, shuffling more or less, over to where the stranger sat. “I- uh, I’m Otabek. From the bar…” Sitting promptly and just looking at the person before him. How did he not realise what a brilliant emerald Yuri’s eyes were? 

“You’re doing that thing again,” the person across from him noted, “Staring. Didn’t anyone teach you staring isn’t polite?” A hand outstretched towards him, expectantly and accompanied by a charming closed-mouth smile. “I’m Yuri.” Otabek met his handshake and only faltered when Yuri commented: 

“I’m a  _ man _ , by the way.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get to a place where I can delve deeper and start writing longer chapters. So here it is! Hopefully following chapters will be more enlightening to both Otabek's and Yuri's lives, as well as where I plan to take their relationship.   
> Constructive criticism always welcome.


	3. Mental Floss

Ah, his name is A Man. _Wait_. Otabek caught himself immediately staring between them to Yuri’s chest. Not that he hadn’t seen any flat chested women in his lifetime. Plenty. Eyes dragging down to the juncture between Yuri’s legs and just letting himself be transfixed.   
“Are you suggesting I drop my pants in the middle of a coffee shop just to prove it?” A sharp-edged voice snapped the writer back to reality. He really needed to fix his problem of staring. It only dug him into problems.   
“N-no- I- I, uh,” their hands dropped, Otabek rubbing his together and averting his eyes. Pushing his glasses up the ridge of his nose and furrowing his eyebrows. God, he was so _awkward_. “Do...you want coffee?” He gestured towards the menu, wrinkling his nose and immediately scanning the menu for something, _anything_ , that’ll get him out of this situation. Yuri, from behind the menu, was smiling like a madman. Oh, how fun it was to see the man across from him lose composure. Yuri might even be a bully at this right, and he didn’t care one bit. 

“Mocha. Iced.” Yuri swung one leg over the other and leaned back into his chair, catching Otabek peering over the top of the menu to catch more glimpses at the dancer’s physique. 

“Um, I’ll be, be right back then.” The author scrambled away with less grace than a ballet dancer,  _ ha _ , and ordered their drinks at the counter only ten feet away. Yuri took this time from when the barista took the order to how long it was until the drinks were handed to his company to get a good long look at Otabek. 

His arms were solid and muscular, but the blonde could tell even from his personality that he was definitely not those douchey ‘gym rats’. He wasn’t that big in mass, but his legs had a nice structure to them, and the way his waist tapered inward to the thick hipline of his trousers .  _ Hell _ , Yuri found himself leaning forward to study more closely.  _ How did a body like that find its way on a person like him? _ The dancer apted for people larger than he was, which was certainly an easy feat considering his feminine stature. Yuri quickly regained an interested, yet distant expression and leaned back into his chair when Otabek came back with both coffees in tow. 

_ Mocha, _ Otabek noted, Yuri now sipping gracefully on the straw with his icy green hues illuminated by the sun now directly on them at this point.  _ That’s the way he likes his coffee _ . “I’m sorry about earlier, it’s just that I had thought-,”

“Everyone does, no worries. You’re not the first and won’t be the last. It’s an occupational hazard.” Yuri set his glass on the coaster to his side. Otabek lilted his head in thought, though his company caught his curiosity very quickly from the way the man’s eyebrows knitted ever so slightly. “I’m a ballet dancer. I dance at the  Baranovskaya Academy of Ballet, down a couple blocks.” Yuri gestured out the window in the general direction.  _ Barano-what? _ Otabek has seen that place before, he thought. He’d passed it many times on his way to the publishing house. It was quite a grand spectacle, almost resembling an English church, minus the steeple and stained glass. Not to mention how expensive their shows are. He recalled JJ taking one of his many dates to one of the ballet’s during Christmas season, and his manager was furious that he wasted all that money just for some ‘ _ cake faced women prancing around in tutu’s to some boring ass music _ ’. Or something along those lines. 

“Oh, is that why you were with tho-those...um,” he didn’t know how to address them, making  general motion with his hand to compensate for the time he was occupying to find the right words. 

“Oh,  _ them _ ? They’re my coworkers. Though, I suppose we’re technically more friends than just business partners. We definitely get more  _ personal _ than other coworkers would typically do.” The author’s face blossomed into a faint dust of pink across his cheeks, Yuri doing nothing to help by letting his brilliant smile spread across his face without restraint. “So, Mr. Character Study, what am I supposed to do so you can study me? Are we just going to stare at each other?” The author pulled out a notebook from his laptop bag and a pen. It was a leather bound notebook, Otabek unravelling the string from the fastener so he could flip to the next open page and jot down the date. 

“No...um, well if you’d like?” He was getting tongue twisted and fuzzy-headed again. “I m-mean, I just watch people organically. What they do when they’re comfortable. So...if you-, if you’d like to do just sit there, or be on your phone, or read- well I guess you d-don’t have a book, so,” Otabek caught himself rambling, another nervous habit he’d acquired in middle school. People always deemed him that he was too quiet, that he needed to talk more. Thus he tried talking more, now whenever he’s nervous he talks too  _ much. _ Otabek struggled at finding balances. 

“Phone? Okay, you got it.” Yuri dug it out from his pocket and immediately was engrossed in whatever he was scrolling through, pleased there was an end to the awkward conversation. The man opposite from him took this time to make a mental map of Yuri. The golden halo of their-  _ his  _ hair, up in a piecey ponytail. His eyes searching from underneath his long ashy eyelashes. Skin given a warm glow from the sun reflecting off the window. The steady rise and fall of his chest and the outstretch of his nimble fingers wrapped around the case of his phone. Character studies were something Otabek liked to do when he had all the time in the world to just look, because character studies involved  _ a lot _ of looking. On more than one occasion did he get caught just gawking at people, multiple getting the wrong idea and either trying to flirt, pick a fight, or report him to the police. It took some practice to perfect it discretely, in open areas with a lot of people. In libraries, where people were so invested into their novel and where it took them that they didn’t give an ounce to their surroundings. Those were the best and most genuine studies. How people behave when they think nobody is watching. 

Thus, Otabek had to take into consideration that this was how Yuri acted when being  _ observed _ . It was a while of the author staying fixated on his object of study, until he lifted the pen from the table and started to write. He noted how long it took for each leg to fall asleep until Yuri switched which one he crossed over the other ankle. Which side of the lip rose when something presumably distasteful came across Yuri’s screen and he snarled. How far his pout jutted out when he lost a level of a game he was playing. How he tried to be sneaky when stealing glances in Otabek’s direction or how he thought if he squinted hard enough, he’d be able to read what was written in the journal. How fast he downed his next iced mocha, and his expectant gaze when Yuri no longer found entertainment in his phone, but now just looked at Otabek in return. Usually, the author didn’t like eyes on him. That’s why he writes under a pseudonym and hides from all media to shield who he is.

_ No one wants an awkward, socially anxious stutterer for a role model.  _

Both their gazes caught and held, Otabek’s pen stilled on his page as a blot of ink seeped through the fibers. He wondered if this is what it felt like when time stopped, everything fading away to apathy in the background and his sole focus on the person in front of him. Mouth opening just enough to allow for air to fill deeper into his lungs, deflating much slower than his previous breaths. 

“You’re doing it again,” Yuri’s expression didn’t change, “Staring.” 

Otabek quipped back to reality, he moved his gaze down to the ink stain in his paper. In the process of lifting his pen, he unceremoniously also knocked down his coffee onto the floor with a dense  _ clink  _ of the ceramic against wood. “ _ Shit, _ ” he muttered, lucky to have spared both the coffee cup and his journal from the third of a cup of coffee that has long went cold and pooled on the ground. Yuri was light on his feet to grab a fistful of napkins and stamp them into the mess, sectioning a few for the droplets that also caught the edge of the table. Slender fingers made quick of the spill and began to wipe urgently along with Otabek, frustratingly wiping the ground with the sop of napkins now mostly soaked up with cold coffee. 

“Sorry, I-, uh, sor-sor-s-”  _ damn it _ why couldn’t just fucking  _ speak _ . Otabek felt the familiar swell of anger surge in his chest, scrunching his face and taking noticeably deep breaths to cool himself off. He just got so angry with himself when he couldn’t get the words from his head to his mouth. “I’ll get it,” his broad hand crossed the other’s fractionally smaller one and took the wet napkins to the trash, as well as place the mug back on the bussing cart. Twiddling his thumbs and taking one, two big deep breaths. “Thank you. Uh, you can leave now. If you want. I think I have eno-enough,” his hand motioned towards where his journal and pen lay on his chair, ink blot staring tauntingly at him. 

The blonde couldn’t refute and just thanked him for the coffee. “If you need, well,” Is a character study a one time thing? “If you want to buy me coffee again, you have my number. Otabek, right?” Yuri poised a practiced polite smile onto his lips. The author could only nod dumbly, seemingly unprepared for the idea of departure even though it was inevitable and he brought it up.  _ Was _ a character study a one time thing? But before an acceptable answer formed in his mind, Yuri was gone. 

_ Damn it. _

 

When the author arrived home, plenty of ‘coulda-woulda-shoulda’ scenarios had taken place in his head. He  _ should  _ have asked how old Yuri was. He  _ should _ have asked for a last name to accompany the first. He  _ should  _ have asked how Yuri got into ballet. Otabek  _ should _ have. But he  _ didn’t. _ An unfamiliar waft greeted his nose when he stepped into the living room, kicking off the tennis shoes that now vaguely smelled of coffee. Stepping far enough into the open space, Otabek was greeted by JJ cooking what smelled like tortellini elliston. He also had the alcohol out.  _ Great _ . 

“Otabek, my friend! How was the date?” JJ set the island that separated the living room from the kitchen with plates and utensils, placing two beer glasses on the center. Either something really good happened or something really terrible happened, and it was hard to discern from the two. 

“Can we not talk about that?” Otabek ran a hand through his hair to brush it off his forehead. It was tickling his eyebrows very often now. “What’s all this? Is there an occasion?” He eyed his manager suspiciously, even catching onto the jazz radio that was playing from his media system behind him, next to the television. 

“Sit, sit!” JJ ushered, plating two heaping servings of the tortellini paired with two bottles of beer. “Let’s eat, I’ve been making this for forty-five minutes now. I’m starved!” Both bottle tops were popped off and poured into respective glasses as JJ took the seat on the side of the island that faced the living room. Otabek the one that faced the kitchen. 

“JJ, what’s going on?” The author rolled his sleeves and studied the food, turning a few pieces of tortellini over and smelling it to check if the food was laced with anything. Passing at least the visual and smell test, Otabek took a bite and continued to observe the manager who was making quick of stuffing his face both with pasta and with beer. “ _ JJ.  _ Tell me.”

“Alright,  _ alright _ . I got a call from the editor while you were gone off on your date-,” 

“It wasn’t a  _ date _ ,” Otabek quipped.

“Ok, your excursion, Otabek. Honestly, what’s so wrong with having a date or two? I think you need it,” JJ stuffed another piece of tortellini in his mouth, rambling in between chews. 

“Your  _ point _ . JJ, get to it.” The brooding author had set down his fork and crossed his arms in defiance, as if to say he won’t eat until his friend get’s the hell on with it. 

“I got a call from your editor. It’s been rejected.” JJ stilled himself, his warm blue hues searching stone chocolate ones. 

“What? My manuscript?  _ Again _ ?” Otabek all of a sudden felt very deflated and very empty. More deflated and empty compared to when Yuri had left. The truth of the matter was that Otabek’s series was under jeopardy of being taken into new hands. With books with such popularity and a fan following, not to mention the cost in  _ revenue _ , Leroy Publishing was going to install an editing team to basically write the following books for him. Under his pseudonym, of course, but Otabek couldn’t let something so  _ artificial _ pass under his nose and go into the hands of his fans. He was such a soft-hearted person when it came to his fans. He did everything within his power to provide them what their hearts wanted, short of revealing himself entirely. All they didn’t know was his name, birthplace, and age. And appearance, loosely. For all they knew, he was some mid-thirties white male who has a phobia of cameras. 

He sighed deeply and caved into the alcohol now begging to be drank. Taking a long swig and continuing onto the rest of his meal. Otabek was never one to let food go to waste, no matter how sour the mood was. “Sorry, bud. Unless you get those award-winning creative juices going, father’s gonna make his money one way or another. I know you hate the idea.” JJ toyed with his tortellini, joining in a sip of beer. 

“I’ll figure out something, JJ. I’m not going down that easy,” Otabek let a faint smile place itself on his features, clinking his glass to his friend’s and taking an even deeper gulp. Maybe he can start figuring out a way by getting drunk off his ass. Not that JJ would mind, he’s always happily obliging. 

 

Long after JJ said his farewell to hail a cab to another part of town, Otabek lay in his bed in his warm and fuzzy drunken state. What could he do? Would going to the park help? Would reading more books help? Would focusing on everything but writing help? Time wasn’t on his side at this point. A hand fumbled into his sweatpant pocket and dug out his cellphone, unlocking it to stare at the number now labeled  _ Yuri _ in his contacts. Drifting back to earlier today, simple and content with just observing the way he moved with only Otabek’s eyes on him. The raven haired man drew in a gulp of air and closed his eyes, forcing himself back at the scene. Ground coffee beans permeating the air, the quiet atmosphere that invited conversation. Cool forest-toned eyes complimented by the tens of plants that scattered around them. His seemingly transparent complexion and the contrast of his sky pink pout.  _ Wow.  _ He imagined soaring to a distant land and stumbling upon someone so breath-taking and so  _ different _ from his rough, bulky exterior. 

_ Like a queen? _ Otabek suddenly sat up in bed.  _ Like a hidden queen that lives _ , he forced himself to imagine some place vast and different and beautiful. Like the park blanketed with undisturbed snow near Christmas.  _ Oh. Snow. Ice? Queen of a hidden ice kingdom. _ He grabbed the journal off his nightstand to jot down the scenario, furrowing his eyebrows as his hand moved faster to stay in pace with his thoughts.  _ It’s a start, _ he breathed.  _ Maybe this is it _ . Suddenly jolted, Otabek broke for his office and sat down at his computer, not to move until on in the early hours of morning. 

 

JJ came in later that morning to see the door to Otabek’s writing sanctuary ajar, which was highly unusual when there was no reason to be in there. His head peeked in to find a mass of blanket curled up on the one of the parallel couches, along with the computer screen on. He squinted and tiptoed closer to both the mass and the screen. Eyebrows shooting up in surprise, followed by a small ‘I-knew-he-could-do-it’ fatherly type of smile. JJ went back out of the room to grab another blanket, unfolding it on top of the soundly sleeping Otabek who had only gotten to bed an hour and a half ago. Tiptoeing back out of the room, JJ left the breakfast he brought over in the microwave along with a note requesting that Otabek call him when he awoke. 

Three hours later near eleven o’clock, Otabek’s eyes squinted open as he stretched out his body onto the couch. It felt like pulling a rusty spring, hurting in places he didn’t normally hurt along with the occasional cracking of joints along his back and knees. Oh, he was  _ definitely _ not a teenager anymore. Sitting up, cloudy hues traveled towards the computer screen, as if to confirm the work done last night was indeed not a dream. By no means was this idea enough to constitute the next installment of his series, but damn it was a  _ start. _ He’s getting somewhere in his head lately. 

Another series of various joints popping in joints he didn’t know could pop before, Otabek struggled to his feet, disregarding the extra blanket he could have sworn wasn’t previously there, and shuffled to the kitchen on the cold ash gray tile floors.  _ Food _ was his the thought in the forefront of his mind, opening the fridge to find all of his eggs and sausage in dangerous low supply. Turning to face the island, a strip of paper caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Reading the handwriting, it was flamboyant and grand and curvaceous and  _ oh so _ JJ. 

Fetching his cell from the charger in his office, Otabek dialed his manager’s number and hooked it between his ear and shoulder, opening the microwave to find eggs benedict in a microwavable bowl. An appreciative smile crept onto his lips as his friend’s very loud and distinctly enthused voice sounded in his ear, starting up the microwave to two minutes and thirty seconds. 

_ “How is my favorite little author today? Sleep well?”  _ Otabek let out a breathy huff of a laugh and leaned against the countertop.  _ So he saw. _

“You’re starting to talk like your father, JJ. I knew you’d warm up to him some day.” 

_ “Oh God, no. I suddenly need to wash out my mouth with soap and disinfect my ears.”  _ Otabek could hear a faint gagging noise on the other side of the line as he retrieved his now steaming eggs, taking a seat on one of his barstools and popping in a cup to his Keurig. A man’s got to have his coffee, no matter what time he gets up in the morning. Or almost afternoon, in his particular case.

“What do you need, JJ. I’m trying to enjoy my breakfast, which thanks by the way. I need to go to the grocery at some point today. I’m all out of eggs and milk.” He forked some of his breakfast into his mouth, letting an open-mouthed exhale escape him when the eggs in his mouth were definitely too hot for his liking. 

_ “You’re scheduled to receive your check today, I just need to get your signature notarized at the bank. So keep an eye out for the email and sign it, ok? The money should be in your account by late tonight,”  _ JJ was typing something, rapidfire from what Otabek could hear, probably at the publishing firm currently trying to send aforementioned email. The author hummed his response and hung up, now content with the temperature of his meal and downing it at full speed. 

 

Yuri finished his morning stretches at the barre before Lilia came in and reviewed the day’s schedule. En pointe technique was from nine to eleven,  _ pas de deux _ training at noon until two, choreography from two thirty until five. The Christmas season was arriving at an alarmingly fast rate in his mind. The holiday season meant ballet season for the studio, and every year they do a seasonal special. This year’s theme being  _ Eros and Agape,  _ and the auditions for the two leads were coming up in two weeks. He wanted to snag  _ Eros _ and show all these stupid citizens just how  _ manly _ he can be. Yuri was determined to shed his frail and delicate image for something more powerful and seductive, that he’ll punch a bitch when it came down to it. 

From across the room he spotted another ballerino, Yuuri, standing in fifth position at attention to the director. Yuuri had come to the studio before he did, albeit had taken a break for two years before returning. Yuri liked being the only one with his name, but since he came second and was younger, he was called  _ Yurio _ . He hated that name. Sounded like a fucking  _ cookie. _

_ No doubt he’s going to audition for Agape _ , Yuri’s eyes trailed back to the front of the room where another choreographer, Viktor, stood pleasantly behind Lilia as she spoke. Viktor was in charge of choreographing the main leads’ solos, and there was no secret that Yuuri had admired Viktor from the day he walked in on the sprung floors.  _ Well, as long as he doesn’t take my spot _ . 

The  _ pas de deux _ class was starting, Yuri took his spot next to Mila, whose height didn’t deter him from lifts nor leaps. They learned a step sequence, Yuri and Mila only misstepping a limited number of times before executing rather splendidly. The main reason the blonde paired with her was due to the fact that they were both perfectionists, to an extent. They even practiced at home, getting broomsticks to the ceiling when they went on for too long at night and landings were less than graceful. 

“No, Mila, you’re supposed to tombé on the  _ fourth _ count, not the third.” Yuri furrowed his eyebrows, suddenly annoyed at how his bun wasn’t holding up and strands of hair kept tickling his cheeks. 

“Well then, why don’t  _ you _ be the following partner and  _ I’ll  _ lead. Will that make you happy?” The auburnette snapped and placed her hands defiantly on her hips. The blonde crossed his arms and glared, as if it was a challenge. Yuri  _ never _ backed down from a challenge. 

“Fine. Let’s see if you can dance as good as you talk.” They took their positions, only swapped.

It seemed to work better height wise, and after a practice run-through, Mila was holding Yuri’s pirouette with ease by the hips, ending in a joined arabesque. Viktor quirked his eyebrow and wandered his way over to watch the small performance the two were giving, which many other couples had unknowingly stopped to watch. 

“Why don’t you two stay in this pairing for the rest of the class?” It was more of a demand than a question, Viktor’s never-ending quaint smile still showing. “Since you both agree to work better this way.” Yuri shot his partner a humorous look, smug as a rug. 

“ _ Ha _ , upset I can do both your part  _ and  _ my part better than you?” He momentarily let down his hair to re-tie it in another loose bun, which would work for the time being. 

“Maybe you look so feminine that you’re better at the following part than leading?” Mila retorted, offering her own smug smirk. “Mr.  _ Russian Fairy _ .” Yuri shot another lethal glare to her and had to stave off his urge to punch her arm. He wasn’t a goddamn  _ fairy. _ He was a fucking  _ tiger _ . 

“Fuck off,” he muttered underneath his breath and begrudgingly took his place to commence the sequence again, now determined to out-dance her even as the leader out of sheer spite. If he was going to have the female part, he was going to do better than everyone in the room. He was going to be the  _ best _ , no matter what role he played or what it took to get there. 

 

Yuri peeled off his ballet shoes and rolled on his socks, feet aching and sore from the day’s strenuous routine. He’d have to soak his feet when he got home, ankles sore from the multiple leaps and jumps he’d performed. Bruises formed constellations and galaxies on his snowy skin, violet overlapping pink and softening caramel. Only it felt one hundred times worse than it looked. 

Mila and Yuri wasted no time changing into their pajamas once home, their tights and leotards gathered in the hamper for a much needed cleanse. It felt nice not to have a second layer of skin bonded by sweat on his body, the blonde decided. Loose, comfortable,  _ relaxed _ . His toes tested the waters shallowly filling the tub within the bathroom. The shower was no longer crisp and white, yet slightly off and eggshell. Worn and used. His feet sank into the warm waters and Yuri’s body positively shivered. It felt so foreign and for a minute, his body resisted the ailment, a cold heat shooting up his legs and dispersing somewhere within his torso. It felt so good it sort of  _ hurt _ . Yuri pondered on this thought, but many times he’d come home and be on his feet all day that when he laid down, all the suppressed pain came full force and almost brought him to tears. He’d never cry, of course. Not that the feisty dancer would ever admit. 

It was a wholesome twenty minutes before the plug was pulled and the water drained with a muffled slurp by the pipe. Yuri caught himself limping into his room and falling onto his bed. The hot soak drew out most of the pain but there was still a dull ache gnawing at his joints. He was remembered of Mr. Character Study and how every so often during their meeting, the writer would drop his pen to smooth out a cramp within his hand or massage his knuckles or soothe the place on his ring finger where his pen rested too hard against. Somehow the similarity was comforting and the young prima drifted off into dreamless sleep. 

 

Otabek studied his small achievement for the next week and a half, piecing different parts of the plot together in various forms, connecting ongoing motifs within the series, and forcing the idea into different spots of his puzzle. Nothing was just quite  _ right _ . It didn’t flow evenly, it didn’t leave a sweet taste on his tongue. He just needed something,  _ anything _ , of an idea for where to take his idea to. Writing utilised a hell of a lot of originality and creativity. But it also needed logic to make the book flow, or else a book turns into a mushy hunk of paper that takes the reader down a rabbit trail with impossibly cheesy dialogue, predictable actions, and no sense of consistent continuation. Or arguably all teenage romance books. Or ‘ _ young adult novels’ _ as they say nowadays.  

The author took a sip of black tea, his mental floss, and leaned far back into his chair. Stretching his arms over his head, his shirt rode up on his stomach and the cool apartment breeze hit his stomach which made him shudder. Otabek preferred the cold over the heat, finding himself particularly elusive during the summer because of the sweltering heat, not to mention all the  _ people _ . He’d much rather wander the streets during the cold November days where people are hurried to get into the next heated building, but Otabek is just left to himself just to think and admire the frosted city. 

The clock read 5:38 in the evening and once again, he found himself observing Yuri’s contact in his phone. He didn’t erase their previous messages, as if erasing them would mean that Yuri wasn’t real and only a figment of his incredulous imagination.   _ Maybe _ seeing a glimpse of the dancer again would clear his head. Yuri seemed to be one-track minded, perhaps a little bit would clear the thousands of voices in Otabek’s head, as well as gather more ideas on his newfound character. His large thumbs fumbled a message as he captured his lip between his teeth and inquired: 

_ Would you be available for another meeting?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are starting to get into the characters' minds!   
> I also studied a bit on the way different people stutter, rather than the cookie cutter stutter. Hopefully it'll blossom into something more realistic and relatable.   
> Please leave constructive criticism!


	4. Room to Breathe

Otabek woke up the next morning to his cheeks incredibly itchy from his beard growing the last two days. He flipped over onto his back and took his phone from the charging port on his nightstand. One new message. From Yuri. 

_ The season is getting busier. Winter soon. Can you do thursday at 5? _

_ Thursday? _ Tomorrow. Less time to run over potential conversations and their drastic demises in his head. But if sacrificing his eloquence to jumpstart his writing process, it’d be a sacrifice he begrudgingly would make. The brightness on his phone made his eyes water, and it was hard enough to see in the mornings without his glasses anyways. Still he managed an concise  _ ok _ and rolled up to sitting position, his spine popping with each vertebrae that he shifted. The author made a mental checklist of the day’s loose schedule.  _ Writing. Groceries. Cooking. Cleaning. _ Knowing fully well that writing was probably not going to happen, Otabek lifted himself to head over to his bathroom. 

The steam from his shower permeated thickly in the room, doing a once over with his shampoo and conditioner, but meticulously cleansing with his bodywash. His mother would always judge how clean he was by how much of the communal family bodywash she could smell on his skin. Otabek unconsciously picked up many habits from his mother. All in love, of course. 

Otabek stepped out and rubbed a spot clear of fog with his hand towel, pumping shaving lather onto his hands and coating his face. He was very particular when it came to shaving, probably because he always saw his uncle with patches of black hair on his face from a poor shave job and it horrified him. Gliding the razor once with the grain of his hair, even steady breaths clouding the mirror again. Then once more against the grain for a closer and even shave, finishing off with a soothing moisturizer. Otabek bit his lip because it stung against his exfoliated skin, always a bit raw from when he shaved. His nose scrunched as his hands found purchase in the towel and dried himself off thoroughly. 

His phone sounded from the other room, and Otabek found himself getting his hopes up that it was Yuri. He rushed off to his bedroom, only a towel hanging precariously around his waist, to check the notification. It was JJ. 

_ I’ll be at your place in ten, let me in. _

He tossed his phone to the bed and slipped on a pair of joggers and a ribbed long sleeve. Pajamas that were socially acceptable in public. The writer foregone his cup of coffee to get a jumpstart on vacuuming the living room and kitchen area. The faster he could clean and get ingredients to try out a new recipe he’d been dying to make the better. Not even halfway done with the gray carpet in between his sofa and chairs, the door was rapidly knocked. 

“JJ,” Otabek opened the door to a jubilant Canadian, pushing his way past the Kazakh and into the loft. 

“I have  _ great _ news. Guess what? You know what- I’ll just tell you. I got father to give me an extension on making the decision regarding your book!” JJ grabbed Otabek by the shoulders, very wide mouthed and smiler and  _ very  _ too touchy for Otabek’s liking. 

“Oh?” His response was very dull  compared to what JJ had expected. 

“ _ Oh _ ? That’s it? Otabek, I was looking for something along the lines of  _ that’s great  _ or  _ thank you so much for being the best manager in the world _ .” He rested his hands on his hips and let his disappointment show evidently on his face. 

“I mean, that’s  _ great _ , JJ. I really appreciate it. Come on, I need to go to the grocery, and you already have your car. Right? Let’s go.” Otabek did his manager a 180 degrees around by the shoulders and nudged him out of the door, without so much as a second to listen to his protests.

They arrived at Whole Foods, and Otabek pulled his grocery list up on his phone. The author was a complete foodie and Whole Foods generally carried more peculiar and quality ingredients, which satisfied his specific taste. His Kazakh family took ingredients very seriously;  good ingredients don’t guarantee a good dish, but if made right it would be extraordinary. First stop was the meats, and JJ was already exploring the exotic alcohols the grocer had to offer. Otabek picked up two dense sirloins then made his way over to the herbs and spices. It was an Italian herb roasted sirloin paired with olive oil grilled asparagus and golden potatoes, all which required an extensive selection of fresh seasonings. 

JJ returned a moment later with a case of Peroni and found Otabek looking very pointedly at the bundles of herbs, rosemary in one hand and basil in the other. After a moment of more deliberation, he placed both in the basket along with parsley, thyme, and oregano. “What are you doing? Planting an herb garden?” The manager scoffed, raising his eyebrows at the other ingredients within the cart. They moved along to gather eggs, pasta (since JJ used all of his the other night), bread, milk, avocado for daily necessities. 

“No, I’m trying a new recipe. It takes a lot more preparation than I had originally thought,” he steered the cart towards the checkout line after all items were checked off, not protesting when JJ included the beer within his groceries. “I’d rather make my food than go to expensive restaurants. Less people,” Otabek swiped his card and gathered the groceries and the receipt. 

“ _ Ouch _ . Makes me so happy you don’t mind being around me. I feel even more special now,” JJ unlocked his car and positioned the paper bags in the trunk. 

“Sure, JJ.  _ Special. _ ” Otabek crossed his arms, letting a small smirk tug at the corner of his lips. 

“Hey-,”

 

JJ had decided to stick around to find out what Otabek’s _oh so_ _special_ new recipe was all about. It took about an hour of anti-climatic preparation before they sat down in a similar fashion as before. Food before them and beer in hand. They cheered before digging in, and JJ, never one to let a meal be silent, struck up another topic. 

“So, who did you meet the last time?” His mouth was full of roasted and peppered asparagus, elbows on the counter as he leaned his chin on both hands. 

“It’s no one. I told you.” Otabek internally groaned. When would this man let him  _ live _ ?

“Oh no sir, it was  _ someone _ . Otabek, mysterious recluse author, doesn’t just meet  _ no one’s _ ,” the manager gestured his friend closer using a ‘come hither’ motion with two fingers, as if leaning in to tell a secret. The other leaned forward in his seat, mouthful of potato. “I understand you might be needing a little bit of  _ relief _ , and I know plenty of fine young ladies that’ll-,” 

“God, JJ,  _ no. _ It’s not like  _ that _ , idiot!” Otabek pulled a very displeased expression and sneered. “It’s just-, you know…” But JJ just looked with one of his signature knowing smiles. It was playful, innocent, yet sinister all the same. “It was someone I had met at the bar. The really rustic one down the street, the one we go to all the time? I was doing a character study.” 

“Did they want to sue again? Have you notified your lawyer?” JJ interrupted, shoving another stock of asparagus into his mouth haphazardly. 

“ _ No _ , JJ. They didn’t want to sue. They said if I wanted to make an appointment, then I could contact them.” Otabek stated matter-of-factly. 

“Wait, hold on. Somebody gave you their  _ number _ ?” The man opposite dropped his fork and stared in disbelief. Otabek just silently contemplated with his stoic face, because he hadn’t thought about it that way before in such a context. They were at a bar, he received a number, then they met up again.  _ What _ ? 

“I mean… I suppose? I met with them to do a better character study.” He omitted the fact that they would meet tomorrow as well, JJ wouldn’t quit bothering him if he knew. 

“And you didn’t tell me sooner because…?” The Canadian took a handsome swig of his Peroni  and held an expectant gaze. 

“You’d interrogate me. Like always.” Otabek resumed with his meal with another bite of his steak.  _ Maybe a little more pepper? _ JJ seemed to consider this notion before reluctantly acknowledging and continued to chew his asparagus. Another sip of his beer and a moment of awkwardly vacant moments later, he glanced up. 

“Is she hot at least?” 

_ “JJ.”  _ The author shot him an ‘ _ oh please _ ’ type of look.

“ _ What _ ? I’ve got to keep an eye on your standards.” JJ rose his hands up defensively, still highly intrigued. 

“First of all, it’s a  _ he _ . Secondly, you’re warping the situation. It was a character study. I do hundreds of them. Plus you gave me the extension. I’m doing my best to keep up my side and get writing.” 

JJ receded in the conversation and finished his meal with small chat amongst other topics, such as his current fling or when Otabek was going start incorporating color into his wardrobe. In the end, they were both washing dishes, with the author scrubbing and the manager drying. 

“I see you’ve gotten some stuff written.” JJ commented absentmindedly. Otabek knew he didn’t fall asleep with a blanket on him.  “Was it because of this  _ guy _ or whatever?” The Canadian was probing now, but his friend held the same stoic expression as he always did.

“Maybe?” Otabek shrugged. There was definitely  _ something _ there that he wanted to explore. He handed the last pan over to JJ and stretched his arms over his head scrunching his nose in a yawn. It was a very long, semi-productive day. No writing done. But at least he had a clean house and food for the next week or so. 

They both said their goodbye’s and Otabek was left to pull on more comfier clothes and crawl into his delightfully welcoming bed, his haven. He simply laid there, his dark orbs staring up into the nothingness of darkness that enveloped his master suite. Somehow, within the emptiness, he saw Yuri. Yuri and his charming smile, the knowing gaze behind his emerald hues. He could also picture his character, his Ice Queen, behind Yuri. Same charming smile, knowing gaze but colder,  _ frigid _ . But the more the author tried to grasp her within his mental capacity the more she seemed to slip away. As if she needed to be physically  _ held  _ in order to get any type of mental picture. 

Otabek chased the Ice Queen into sleep and dreamt soundly. 

 

The author woke with a start, and absolutely  _ freezing _ . No wonder because he had somehow kicked all his comforter onto the other side of the bed and half onto the floor. Quickly gathering it and wrapping up into warmth, Otabek squinted at his phone for any new messages. None, surprisingly. It was rare for him to wake up and there not be any emails from his publishing firm, his manager, editors, nor boss for that matter. It was 10:47 and Otabek somehow slept passed his usual 8:30 internal alarm clock. Within days that he was not working on the book and an actual functioning member of society, his body woke him consistently. However, when he’d deprive his body of sleep for days on end, it usually was matched with equal amounts of rest afterwards. One for one, usually. 

His day was vacant except for the ever present need to write, as well as his second meeting with Yuri. A cold shiver ran the length of Otabek’s legs in anticipation.  _ Cold feet _ , as his mother called it. After another few minutes of blissful warmth, his body forced itself out and into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Perhaps he’d spend an hour or so at the gym, to simultaneously clear his head and focus his mind. Shower afterwards. 

Before Otabek realized that sports and physical competitions weren’t his cup of tea, he used to think his anxiety would decrease the more mass he put on his body. He’d lift weights for hours each week, run miles, push his physical limits in hopes that when gameday came, there’d be no choking fear making his head go blank. One sport he didn’t hate as much as the rest was figure skating. Otabek only did it to appease his younger sisters, who loved it when he’d successfully completed a single toe loop. 

Now the author used exercise as a medium of personal time. But today, ironically the more Otabek tried to think, the more his head went blank. The next time he looked at the clock, it was a bit after noon and sweat drenched his shirt and back. His lead feet dragged him all the way back to his loft and he stripped in the hallway, disgusted with how his clothes clung to him and his stench. The shower held high hopes for allowing space for the Kazakh to think, and the steam actually provided a little clarification. 

_ Yuri _ , Otabek pondered, getting lost in massaging the shampoo into his hair. What more was there to observe? He would think it’d be highly inappropriate for Otabek to watch him dance. But he’d also think it had been highly inappropriate for Otabek to receive his number. This man was mysterious and contradicting and smug and mighty and all of this made the author want to see him all the more. He didn’t know what compelled this unreasonable rationale out of him, but it would be the key to unlocking creative potential. 

 

This go-around, Otabek was punctual and arrived ten minutes early. Cleanly dressed in a lightweight navy sweater paired with jeans. Overall a relaxed look, but still neat and orderly. He had already ordered his company an iced mocha, promptly sitting at the spot where Yuri would be sitting. Just as he pondered what made the drink so attractive in Yuri’s eyes, the blonde walked in and seemingly frazzled. 

“I’m sorry I’m late, things ran over at the studio and I had to rush home,” he spoke breathily and his face scrunched to try and even his breathing. Yuri’s hair was in a messy topknot, many stray strands of hair finding their way out of hold. The sleeves on his visibly worn sienna sweater were pushed to his elbows, whether or not the sweater was bought in that fashion was hard to tell. His jeans were torn too, but only a few razor tears. 

“It-it’s, um, it’s fine,” Otabek assured then urged, “Please, drink!” Pushing the beverage towards Yuri, then at a softer and less assured tone, “ I thought you might want it again.” Though when the author thought about it, the weather had made its steady decline and perhaps a hotter coffee would have been more suited. Yuri flashed a brilliant smile and took a sip, slumping back into the chair comfortably, as if he finally had room to  _ breath _ . 

“What would you like me to do today, Mr. Character Study? More staring?” 

“N-no… well, yes, but. I mean, I was ho-hoping that you’d be open to, to uh… talking more?” Otabek shuffled his thumbs together and stared down at them interestedly. The notion seemed to catch the dancer off guard, but shock turned into content and he shrugged. 

“Sure. What would you like to talk about?” Otabek caught the subtle change in Yuri’s form, the way he leaned onto the armrest and sunk further into cushions as if he was preparing himself for a long discussion. 

“Maybe… what is, u-uh,  um, ballet for you?” He punctuated the phrase by poising his pen readily at his notepad, slowly gnawing at the inside of his lip. The person opposite seemed to reach far back into his mental space, pressing his hands closer around the cup in thought. 

“Dance is like my survival. It’s how I make a living, it’s how I escape the  _ real world _ , whatever that means. I suppose since it’s all I’ve ever known I can’t imagine a life without it.” He shrugged and took another sip while Otabek jotted down a few notes. He was  _ very _ curious to see how Yuri danced considering that he had never been one for it. Skating required some type of ballet training, and truthfully, he looked like a dead fish flopping around on sprung floors. 

“How long have yo-you been, uh,” he furrowed his eyebrows as the words were getting stuck in his throat and his mental filter. 

“All my life. Since I was three.” It was automatic, almost a quip. 

“A-an-and, how old…” Otabek implied, making a vague gesture towards Yuri. 

“I’m twenty.”  _ Oh _ . He hadn’t realised the age gap between them, not that Yuri’s youthful appearance wouldn’t have given it away in the first place. “And you? This conversation is very one-sided.” Yuri’s lips formed a pout, as if odds were stacked against him. 

“T-twenty-six.” It wasn’t a dirty  _ secret _ or anything. But Otabek felt guilty for robbing the young man of his time, plus previously mistaking him for a woman. He had difficulty doing a lot of things right nowadays. “Yo-you said you danced a-at, at the, the uh… “

“Baranovskaya Academy of Ballet? I know, it’s a mouthful. Yes, I do.” Yuri was leaning on his palm now, eyes softer now than before, and the author duly noted. 

“Would you consider yourself any g-go-good?” The he went again.  _ Fuck _ with his stuttering. He wanted to disappear. 

“Hell yeah. I consider myself one of the best male dancers- no, best dancers within the studio. I always perfect all the routines. I’m a prodigy, if I say so myself.” The blonde slipped into a smug little thing of a smirk, almost  _ dripping _ in confidence. Otabek wondered if he drew it from a well somewhere and where the  _ hell _ he could find it.  

“Would you mind i-if, if I uh, saw you danced?” His voice was pathetically weak and completely unconvincing. The writer wasn’t even sure Yuri had heard him until the other leaned closer. 

“ _ You _ want to see  _ me _ do ballet?” His emerald eyes turned sharp, observant. “Are you a serial killer? Rapist?” The phrase was laced in accusation and bite. But Otabek immediately seized up and shook his head, waving his hands in an  _ absolutely fucking not _ motion. 

“No, n-no, I mean. If- i-if you d-d-do-don,” Otabek took a deep breath and willed himself calmer. “You can say no. But I’ll p-pay… for your time. Like how someone is paid to- uh, pose. For a painting.” He pushed forward his sincerest face, in all its stoic simplicity. Otabek was  _ serious _ . 

“You want me to be your  _ model _ ?” Yuri’s eyebrows puzzled and he rested his forearms on the table, crossed. 

“M-muse. It’s called a muse.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to that point! Please leave constructive criticism as always.   
> Less of Yuri this time around (I'm saving it, you could say.)


End file.
